'What would you like me to play next?"
Bless you, Ben. Glancing over her shoulder, Rozenn flashed him a smile.
'I should like a story this time, Benedict,' the Countess replied. 'Tell us the one about Tristan and Isolde.'
'Oh, yes,' Lady Alis breathed, blue eyes wide. 'Tristan and Isolde, I adore that one."
Rozenn gritted her teeth and stared blindly at a knight on the wall-hanging, so she would not have to see Ben exchange smiles with the girl he had met in the hayloft.
Then, unable to bear it any more, she turned her head and shot him a brief glance.
He had laid his lute across his knees. Opening his eyes wide--he was not looking at Lady Alis--he began to recite. 'Once upon a time, King Mark..."
As Ben's seductive voice filled the solar, conversations drew to a halt. Needles froze over the canvas. Heads turned in the direction of the fireplace, old heads as well as young. Rozenn pursed her lips. Was no one proof to his charms'?
Ben's voice, she had to admit, was his chief asset--it had a way of reaching deep into your heart. At least, that was how it was for her, and, given Ben's success and popularity, she assumed others felt the same. Reaching for a length of sage-green wool, Rozenn threaded a needle and shuffled closer to the table. Her stool leg squeaked.
Countess Muriel tutted.
'My apologies,' Rozenn mouthed, and bent over the canvas.
Yes, his voice was perfect. It was clear, it was carrying and it was somehow caressing. Like his fingers. A memory of the previous night flashed in on her, when she and Ben had been talking to each other with only her table between them. He had held her hand and his fingers had moved gently over hers. So gently. She could almost feel the warmth of his fingertips as she would feel them if he were to lift her hand to his lips. Later, he might lean forwards across the table and reach for her.. .he might slide his other hand round her neck, he might bring his lips to hers, he might...
Her needle ran into her finger and she gasped.
'Rozenn, do be still.' The Countess frowned. 'And mind you don't bleed on the canvas.'
Nodding an apology, Rozenn blinked at the welling blood and lifted her finger to her mouth. What was she about? Just because Ben's voice had the power to seduce half of Brittany did not mean it had the power to seduce her.
He had reached the point in the story when the lovers were sleeping in each others' arms, deep in the forest.
With rather more of an effort of will than she would have liked--the picture of Ben's arms around her was worryingly compelling--Rozenn made herself think of another pair of arms.
Richard of Asculfs. It is Sir Richard I yearn for in that way. And then, for one heart-sinking moment, she was utterly unable to recall the colour of Sir Richard's eyes. Brown? Blue? No, brown. Or was it grey? Lord. A knight, he's a knight, she muttered to herself, trying to close out the distracting sound of Benedict Silvester's voice.
Lady Josefa--Rozenn's jaw clenched--had abandoned all pretence of embroidering, and was sitting with her hands resting idle on the wall-hanging, gazing at Ben as though he were her only hope of salvation.
Hunching her shoulder--really, Josefa was embarrassing--Rozenn sneaked a look in Ben's direction. It was just her luck that his eyes were open and he happened to be facing her way. He didn't falter in his telling of the story, but his voice did soften as their eyes met. A curl of awareness unfurled in her belly. Damn him. Huffing out a breath, she turned back to her work.
As the story unfolded Rozenn held the image of Sir Richard in the forefront of her mind. The last time she had seen Sir Richard he had been riding out of Quimperle at her brother's side. Two knights, one Norman and born to his station, with lands and a proud ancestry, and the'other but newly knighted and with not one acre to his name. How kind Sir Richard was to have given me a gold cross. How kind he was, Rozenn thought, deliberately blocking out the
Bless you, Ben. Glancing over her shoulder, Rozenn flashed him a smile.
'I should like a story this time, Benedict,' the Countess replied. 'Tell us the one about Tristan and Isolde.'
'Oh, yes,' Lady Alis breathed, blue eyes wide. 'Tristan and Isolde, I adore that one."
Rozenn gritted her teeth and stared blindly at a knight on the wall-hanging, so she would not have to see Ben exchange smiles with the girl he had met in the hayloft.
Then, unable to bear it any more, she turned her head and shot him a brief glance.
He had laid his lute across his knees. Opening his eyes wide--he was not looking at Lady Alis--he began to recite. 'Once upon a time, King Mark..."
As Ben's seductive voice filled the solar, conversations drew to a halt. Needles froze over the canvas. Heads turned in the direction of the fireplace, old heads as well as young. Rozenn pursed her lips. Was no one proof to his charms'?
Ben's voice, she had to admit, was his chief asset--it had a way of reaching deep into your heart. At least, that was how it was for her, and, given Ben's success and popularity, she assumed others felt the same. Reaching for a length of sage-green wool, Rozenn threaded a needle and shuffled closer to the table. Her stool leg squeaked.
Countess Muriel tutted.
'My apologies,' Rozenn mouthed, and bent over the canvas.
Yes, his voice was perfect. It was clear, it was carrying and it was somehow caressing. Like his fingers. A memory of the previous night flashed in on her, when she and Ben had been talking to each other with only her table between them. He had held her hand and his fingers had moved gently over hers. So gently. She could almost feel the warmth of his fingertips as she would feel them if he were to lift her hand to his lips. Later, he might lean forwards across the table and reach for her.. .he might slide his other hand round her neck, he might bring his lips to hers, he might...
Her needle ran into her finger and she gasped.
'Rozenn, do be still.' The Countess frowned. 'And mind you don't bleed on the canvas.'
Nodding an apology, Rozenn blinked at the welling blood and lifted her finger to her mouth. What was she about? Just because Ben's voice had the power to seduce half of Brittany did not mean it had the power to seduce her.
He had reached the point in the story when the lovers were sleeping in each others' arms, deep in the forest.
With rather more of an effort of will than she would have liked--the picture of Ben's arms around her was worryingly compelling--Rozenn made herself think of another pair of arms.
Richard of Asculfs. It is Sir Richard I yearn for in that way. And then, for one heart-sinking moment, she was utterly unable to recall the colour of Sir Richard's eyes. Brown? Blue? No, brown. Or was it grey? Lord. A knight, he's a knight, she muttered to herself, trying to close out the distracting sound of Benedict Silvester's voice.
Lady Josefa--Rozenn's jaw clenched--had abandoned all pretence of embroidering, and was sitting with her hands resting idle on the wall-hanging, gazing at Ben as though he were her only hope of salvation.
Hunching her shoulder--really, Josefa was embarrassing--Rozenn sneaked a look in Ben's direction. It was just her luck that his eyes were open and he happened to be facing her way. He didn't falter in his telling of the story, but his voice did soften as their eyes met. A curl of awareness unfurled in her belly. Damn him. Huffing out a breath, she turned back to her work.
As the story unfolded Rozenn held the image of Sir Richard in the forefront of her mind. The last time she had seen Sir Richard he had been riding out of Quimperle at her brother's side. Two knights, one Norman and born to his station, with lands and a proud ancestry, and the'other but newly knighted and with not one acre to his name. How kind Sir Richard was to have given me a gold cross. How kind he was, Rozenn thought, deliberately blocking out the
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